Page 18 of The Dearly Departed

"I keep it outside," I answered with a shrug. "I figured you wouldn't want me doing it in here.”

He looked absolutely downtrodden as he nodded. "I mean, yes, that's … that's correct, but … where … how have you been getting—" He cut himself off and raised a hand, stopping me from responding. "You know what? Don't answer that."

"Okay," I said.

With another sigh, Leonard turned and grabbed a chair to drag it over and take a seat in front of us. He steepled his hands, tapping the tips of his fingers together as he shook his head.

"If you needed cigarettes, Bram, why didn't you ask me?"

I huffed an incredulous laugh. "Right. Like I could've just come up to you every week and said, Hey, Leonard, time to grab me a fresh pack, and you would've just done it."

"Yes, Bram," he said with exasperation, meeting my eyes. "That's exactly what I would've done. And the fact that you still don't understand that after everything I've done for you boys is … well, if I’m being honest, it's very hurtful."

From the corner of my eye, I saw Shawn shift his gaze toward me. He had told me not to swipe the cigarettes when the gas station attendant opened the locked case for someone else. But then again, Shawn never liked when I stole anything, period. And not because he didn't like the thrill of getting away with something bad—the little shit loved it just as much as Ike and me—but because he didn't want the cops to catch us again. He didn't want us to get dragged back here.

He didn't want to make Leonard upset.

Somehow, I'd only just realized that I didn't want to make him upset either.

My tongue poked at my inner cheek as I fought my mouth to form the words I needed to say. But how was I supposed to say something I'd never said before?

"Bram, I don't care that you smoke," Leonard went on, helpless and sad. “I even understand why you boys sometimes … why you get into trouble. It's … it's all you've ever known, and I know I can't expect for you to turn that off with a snap of my fingers. I don't expect it. But all I ask is that you try.”

Shame heated my cheeks, and I dipped my chin to touch my chest. “Leonard—"

“You boys have been an enormous help around here. I enjoy having you here. I-I appreciate your company. But other people … they don’t understand,” he went on. “I need you to try to do better and stay out of trouble for the business. No … I need you to do it for me. Do you think you can try? Just a little bit?”

It had never occurred to me that our behavior could be a negative reflection on the funeral home’s reputation. We worked around here, sure. Kept the place clean and the yard tidy. Kept things organized, arranged the flowers and chairs, and carried whatever Leonard needed. We did well within these walls. We listened, and we behaved.

Under this roof, I was Leonard’s. A part of the Llewellyn family.

But out there?

I was Abraham Crowley, eldest son to a liar and a homeless drug addict.

And whatever happened outside these walls was compartmentalized, separated from our lives here. Somewhere in our minds, we still belonged to the streets, products of a system that had failed us time and time again.

It never occurred to me that those sides of us had, at some point, intertwined.

“I’m sorry,” I managed to say, meaning it.

Leonard seemed as surprised as me. He sat up taller and stared ahead into my eyes. His brows lifted, and one side of his mouth tipped upward into a smile.

“Apologies aren’t necessary,” he said. “All I ask is that you try.”

I nodded once. “We can try. I will try.”

“Good,” he replied, then reached out to pat my knee. “You can smoke in the back. I’ll get you something to use as an ashtray. But no more sneaking around, all right? And if you need more cigarettes—”

“I can try to quit if—"

He lifted a hand, giving it a little dismissive wave. “Of course, that would be the best thing for you,” he said. “But until then, ask me for what you need. No more stealing.”

“No more stealing,” I repeated.

Shawn and Ike nodded.

No more stealing.